


Untitled hurt/comfort WIP

by sootonthecarpet



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking to Cope, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Laundry, M/M, Making Out, Nudity, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Blame, Sobbing, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:32:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootonthecarpet/pseuds/sootonthecarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I knew I should have been relieved to find the injury was not nearly as bad as the great amount of blood made it look, that it would cost him neither life nor limb, but I felt sick and dizzy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More tags to come as more story is written, like, I'm not yet sure of the specifics of the whole story with regards to tagging.

There was nothing of note about the robbery itself. We were almost noiseless—it was pure ill luck that the owner of the house was awake and caught us by surprise only just after we had broken in, and it was pure ill luck that he had a gun.

Raffles easily slipped into some sort of cover story, saying we were something or other—I do not remember what he said we were. I know it was a trick we would come to employ on more than one occasion, one that would be very useful to us, but at the time I had no experience of it, and hardly any of lying to save our skins. I made a vague sort of stammering noise and stared in shock.

“I’ll be damned if you are,” growled the man with the gun, but his hand was shaking as he pulled the trigger, and Raffles had started away moments beforehand. There was a sound which I would hesitate, coming from Raffles, to term a shriek of pain, but a few moments later he had composed himself, hand clutched tightly over his upper arm. The man who had shot him seemed a bit stunned—possibly he had never fired a gun before, definitely never at a human target. I continued to stare—I was frozen until Raffles growled my name. We poured back out the window in the very nick of time, as the moment my feet touched the ground he gathered his resolve and fired several more shots in our direction. It was very dark, and nothing connected. We fled until we found a ditch to hide in. 

“That was your fault,” he snapped as he removed his mask, the first thing he had said since we made our unfortunate exit. I was too out of breath to make a response, but I had none to attempt to say. I hung my head and gasped for air. He gave me several long moments (during which I took off my mask as well) before grabbing my shoulder tightly to get my attention.

“Give me that scarf,” he ordered, shrugging himself out of his coat down to his forearms and making horrible tiny wincing noises. I unwrapped it and offered it to him. “No,” he said, “You do it. It’s my arm, I can’t exactly…” I could just make out that he closed his eyes. I couldn’t see very much, but he looked exhausted. I took his arm—the left one—carefully and put the scarf around the general area of the injury several times, pulling tightly before I dared tuck the ends in.

“Well, help me on with my coat,” he prompted. “I am fed up with you staring like a startled fawn!”

Blinking away tears—when had they gotten there?—I pulled it back up over his shoulders and helped him to his feet. He staggered in the direction of the street, getting his legs more or less under control after a few moments. 

“Ugh,” he said, looking about. “We shall have to do a bit of walking if we want to find a cab.”

“Can you manage it?” I exclaimed.

“Well, I must, mustn’t I?” he said, teeth gritted.

I am not quite sure how long we walked before we found a street busy enough. I know that eventually he muttered “I am your drunken friend” into my ear and collapsed onto my shoulder. In my distress, I gave the address of my own rooms instead of his, prompting an angry nudge in my side. I ignored that and sat with my hands clenched in my lap, attempting to compose myself to any extent. The trip home seemed to drag on for an eternity, and I know that the extent to which he leaned on me as we walked to the door was much less an act than it had been before. He straightened up once we were inside, but he moved slowly. I got the lights on in my rooms and my breath caught in my throat at how much he had paled. He sat down on my sofa, closing his eyes.

“Surely I have some bandages around here,” I said, trying to sound off-hand and relaxed, but the trembling of my voice must have given me away.

He hmph-ed and smirked wearily. “Clever rabbit. Don’t go for a doctor. No decent person gets shot at one AM.”

I scurried away and, after much searching, located some bandages and dressings. I filled a bowl with water and grabbed a couple of clean handkerchiefs. I piled all on a little table and dragged it closer. “Can you get out of your own clothes?” I asked him. He stood and struggled out of his coat, then plucked at the scarf. Blood was beginning to soak through it—his jacket was black, and I could not make out the stains there. I undid it and dropped it on top of the coat, then got him naked to the waist but for an undershirt. This, even, was soaked with blood on one side. My chest seemed to clench around my heart, and I could not speak. Even if I had the power, there would have been nothing to say but all that was running through my head, “This is my fault, this is my fault,” and I was not sure if I had ever needed a drink more severely, and there would have been no point in confessing my guilt when he already knew of it, so it was in silence that I ruined my best handkerchiefs.

I knew I should have been relieved to find the injury was not nearly as bad as the great amount of blood made it look, that the bullet had gone through entirely, that he could still move his fingers, that it would cost him neither life nor limb, but I felt sick and dizzy. 

“You see, it’s not at all as bad as you thought,” he said, pushing at my trembling fingers as I brought up the handkerchief to wipe away another trickle of blood. “Get it wrapped up, there’s a good fellow.” His tone was short and his jaw was tense.

I pressed a pad of gauze against it quite hard for several minutes, then wrapped it down with bandages as snug as I thought wise without risking cutting off circulation to anything.

He wrestled himself out of his undershirt and his trousers, and pushed off his shoes. “Would you be so good as to bring me a blanket?” he asked politely, as if asking for the salt at a dinner table. I brought him two, and the only one of my nightshirts that looked as though it would accommodate the muscles of his shoulders—you cannot be so powerful a swimmer without it showing in that respect. He took both blankets, but refused the nightshirt, saying he was tired of donning and removing clothes. He slept there, naked, and I retreated to my room with a half-empty bottle of whiskey and locked the door behind me, but a half bottle was not enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where Bunny's life is all kinds of awful, and we're in his headspace. Warnings for several very subtextual allusions to suicide and one overt contemplation. Also there is a limited-symptom panic attack and generally being fucked up. (And alcoholism.)

Neither of us woke until the early afternoon. I was starting to make breakfast at the same time he was beginning to stir. 

“You shall have to go to the Albany and fetch me some of my own clothes,” he said. “Yours are too small in the shoulders and too big in the hips.” I nodded and returned to attempting to cook, trying not to look at Raffles, but I couldn’t help doing so. I was rummaging in a cupboard. He was sitting up again, and there was a darker patch in the bandages. Not red any more, it couldn’t have been red for hours, but it was still there, and I could not avert my eyes. He inspected the bandages with a frown, prodding at them gently. I withdrew a cup blindly, and then I heard him wince. The cup fell from my hand and broke on the edge of the counter, shards falling to the floor with a light tinkling. 

“Do you want to borrow a dressing gown?” I stammered. “You look—you look cold.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose I’d rather not eat breakfast naked…” he said with a luxurious shrug on only one side.

I stepped past him and turned back to look. “You’ve bled through your bandages,” I mumbled without purpose. He gave me a look that demanded one, and I wracked my brains. “I should change them,” I suggested. He nodded.

“And there’s a pile of my bloodstained clothing on the floor,” he pointed out, nudging it with his foot with a look of distaste. “Throw the shirt and jacket away or burn them or something, Bunny, there’s no getting the stains out…”

“Well,” I mumbled, “Am I to make breakfast, or dispose of your damaged garments, or change your bandages?” It may have been my condition (mental and physical) rather than my emotional state, but everything was running slower and I felt very easily overwhelmed. 

“Bandages,” he said, humming gently. “And then breakfast. You can get rid of the old clothes on your way to the Albany.”

“The Albany?!” I interjected.

“Yes, to pick me up some clean clothes… You can give whatever excuse you like.” He sighed. I brought over the bandages and dressings and, now that I was not in a panicked hurry, took a washcloth to use for cleaning. This I dampened. I sat next to him and undid the bandages as gently as I could. I washed away the blood where it had smeared on his skin, and carefully redid the whole thing with a fresh dressing and bandages. I disposed of the bloody ones and fetched him a dressing gown, my largest. He put his good arm through and pulled it around himself.

“I think perhaps sandwiches for breakfast,” I mumbled, looking at the broken china on the floor. I did not, at present, trust myself to cook with a fire, and I hadn’t the concentration to make a decent breakfast. I put together some inelegant sandwiches and brought them over, along with a glass of water for Raffles. 

“Thank you, Bunny.”

I sat down with my plate on my lap and stared miserably at the table.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked at length.

“Nothing,” I answered, finally remembering to take up my sandwich and eat it. He seemed not to have the energy for conversation, and let the matter be. I was glad of it... I was eating my sandwich by memorization only. For all I was aware of, it might have been cardboard. It only tasted of that, anyway. My mouth and throat were dry, although I am sure that my awareness of this was exacerbated by my certainty that I had actually drunk all of my alcohol. Raffles was giving me funny looks. I suppose I must have looked quite a sight, although perhaps nothing worse than he had seen me before. I shook my head to clear it and put down what there was of my sandwich. “You wanted clothes?” I had to ask, I was not sure if I remembered.

“Yes,” he said. “You’ll find my key in my pockets, along with what else is to be expected.” I emptied his pockets of all contents, as I might be disposing of several of the bloody garments. I blinked as I lifted his shirt, still, very reasonably, caked along the arm and side with blood. I shoved it back to the floor, suddenly nauseous. Once I had the strength to touch it, I crushed it into a rough ball and tucked it inside of the jacket, mercifully dark enough that I could not see the blood if I was not looking, but I was looking, I was looking so well that it felt everywhere. “Excuse me,” I gasped roughly, before remembering that I had nothing to which to turn. I leaned on the palm of one hand, sure my knees were shaking despite clear evidence that I was sitting firmly on the carpet.

“Did I keep you up too late last night?” Raffles said coldly. A sort of quivering feeling went through me, and, unaccustomed to anything but guilt, it took me several moments to recognize that it was anger. It cleared my head enough for me to grab the clothes and stand. I found a box to stuff them into, and I found my way into my coat. 

“No, I thought not,” he said in the same tone as I was getting towards the door. By now anger had abated and I was back to what seemed to be becoming my natural state.

“Well, I’m off,” I said, trying to remember how to make my voice sound like anything but a plea for undeserved forgiveness. I left as quick as I could, but I had to lean against the doorframe once I had closed and locked it behind me. I took breaths that seemed too fast to be wise, because it felt definite that if I stopped I would surely choke. I made it to the street on legs made of water and ducked around the corner of a building, my chest squeezing my heart and lungs and I found something that looked like it might be garbage so I flung the clothing onto it, turned around, fell to my knees.

It was probably at least ten minutes before I got my breathing under my own control, and a little longer before I felt safe enough to stand up. I walked back to the street, trembling in the aftermath. I got a cab. It was a little darker there. I closed my eyes.

I said at the Albany that Mr. Raffles had torn his clothes in a minor accident and I was fetching clean and undamaged ones. I pushed from my mind the nature of the accident in question and brought back something suitable. I took a few slow breaths in front of my door before entering, then pushed it open to find Raffles tapping his fingers and looking very slightly impatient.

“Hello,” I mumbled.

“Hm,” he said. Then he looked at me with the full force of both eyes, and I shivered. There was an expression I could not read. I almost did not want to approach him, but I came over and handed him the clothes. I had to help him into them, which I would not have minded under other circumstances. I started away violently when he put a hand on my face and watched his mouth become a hard line for several seconds before it returned to a neutral state. “I say, Bunny, you’re jumpier than usual. Are you sure you hadn’t best come with me?”

He gave me an expression that was more significant than his words, and I chose to ignore his implication.

“I’ll stay here, thanks,” I said. “Let me help you to the street and get you a cab.” He moved close so I could support him.

I did not like the feel of his body pressed to my side, warm and reassuring as something in my stomach tried to insist it could still be. Once we bade each other good-bye, the sudden lack of him hit me in that same place. I felt myself crumple before I allowed it to happen, and made it back to my rooms as I began to sob in earnest. By the time I was quite finished, my head was aching and I had made quite a mess of myself. I reached for the nearest glass, but it was Raffles’s water left over from breakfast. I undressed and got myself into a hot bath, in which I considered drowning myself. I decided to buy more whiskey, instead, and the next several days subsided into a blur of nausea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter where Raffles gets his shit together.

He came back some days later. I had not invited him, and I did not even let him in. In fact, it was the middle of the night. I was asleep on the sofa, and he shook me awake. 

“Why didn’t you knock?” I asked, rolling over so I could look at his face. He moved away just as quickly, rising to put the light on, so I caught hardly a glimpse of it.

“I did, but you were fast asleep and didn’t hear it, so I let myself in.”

“Oh.” I sat up, but regretted it. I drew up my knees and rested my head on them to relieve the dizziness. “Why did you come?”

“I thought you might like some company,” he suggested.

“But Raffles, it’s nighttime, why would you come over to see if I wanted company?” I think I meant to say it differently. His visit was very sudden. 

He shrugged. “Do you?” 

I shook my head. “I feel ill.”

“It’s your own fault, you know. How much have you been drinking?”

My chest tightened. “It doesn’t matter. And I don’t see why you came all the way here at this time of night to ask me how much I’ve been drinking. I’ve half a mind to throw you out,” I added miserably.

“I wouldn’t trust you to throw anything, in your state, Bunny… Well, I never would, I suppose.”

I buried my face in my arm to turn away. “If I wanted you, I would have written,” I whispered. I was seized with a sudden terror that if he remained much longer I would burst into tears in front of him. Curse him, he shifted closer. My hands clenched into fists. I felt dangerously close to the edge of a total confession. He already knew of my guilt, I assured myself, he does not need to hear it reaffirmed, stay silent… My breath hitched. “Get out,” I shuddered. “I have to sleep, it’s very—late…“ My voice was starting to choke up. It must have been very obvious that I was about to cry.

I was brave enough to look up at him sidelong, and caught him in an expression of neutral deliberation. 

“I suppose I have got something to do,” he said, looking at his nails. “That is of more concern than questioning you as to your drinking habits.”

My sigh of relief felt more of a shudder. I rose and showed him to the door on unsteady legs. I made sure to lock it behind him. I went to my bed and curled into it. Sleep did not drag me down until well after helpless sobbing overtook me.

The next morning, I was staring into the fire when I heard a knock at my door. I was sure it was Raffles. Part of me—most of me—wanted to hide in my closet. Instead, I rose from my seat and took a deep breath, trying to square my shoulders and look in command of myself. I made it to the door and opened it. I could not maintain eye contact. I chewed on my lower lip to cease its trembling. “Bunny,” he said, and I prepared myself for the worst. “You are blocking the doorway,” he finished, leaning on it with his right arm. I shuffled back, stepping out of the way to let him through. I was weak and shaky, but sober.

“What is it?” I asked him, resuming my seat.

“That business of mine,” he said, “After I visited you.”

“Yes…?”

“I have your share.”

I made a small confused sound.

“I returned to the house we so excellently failed to burgle and absolutely cleaned out the place. It was a fairly simple matter, actually. I timed it much better this time.”

So that was it. It had, in fact, been easier for him on his own. But to go back there, where he had so nearly been killed! “Raffles!” I exclaimed, shocked, angry, hurt, _frightened for him_. He laughed merrily. He took my reaction for amazement, no doubt. I put my hands over my face and gave a single rough sob.

I felt the sofa dip as Raffles sat down beside me. 

“And what if you had been killed?” I asked, muffled. “What then?”

“You do not think me so clumsy as to be caught twice in the same place, surely.”

I dropped my hands from my face and rested them on my knees.

“Bunny…”

“This time, you did not have me to slip you up.”

“What is this all about?” he asked me, in a harsh whisper, leaning close to my ear. “What has gotten into you since that night?”

“Nothing more than I deserve,” I said flatly.

“You are being obtuse.”

I shrugged.

Raffles sighed. “Last night, I came to see you to invite you to come with me. When you did not answer my knock, I assumed you must have gone to bed, and came in to check. In fact, I found you face down on the sofa… I spoke to you, producing no reaction. I knew you had been drinking, and I became… concerned. Fortunately, you awoke on my next attempt… However, I found you in a worse state than I had left you. I could not, and did not, understand your reasoning. I wanted to see if I could improve your condition.” He drew in a breath that was almost unsteady. “I found you would not let me. I was completely uncertain what was to be done.” He turned and looked at me. “Bunny… you rather frightened me, when you were asleep. I thought you might have done something drastic.”

I looked down. I couldn’t bear his gaze, not with so much honesty in it, not when he had just spent so many words in an uncharacteristic explanation of himself. Guilt multiplied inside of me. “How can you not understand what has upset me?” I asked him, quietly enough that he had to lean closer.

He placed a hand flat against the side of my face.

“Bunny… my dear Bunny. You know, understanding has never been my strong suit… You shall have to enlighten me.”

My eyes filled with tears far too suddenly. I could not hope to blink them away.

His expression became, perhaps, more gentle. “I hoped my demonstration would encourage you…”

“You were shot,” I whispered. “It was due to one of my failings, Raffles. You might have died…“

The hand on my face moved to my shoulder and squeezed lightly. “You yourself know it wasn’t a very serious wound…”

“It might have struck your heart had you been a little less lucky.”

“You can’t possibly intend to blame yourself, Bunny. You were never a good actor, and it was pure chance we were walked in on…”

“’Blame myself’? Have you already forgotten?” I gasped. “You—you said it was my fault, right then and there—!”

He frowned, thinking. “Yes, I remember,” he said at length. “I didn’t mean it, of course,” he added, utterly calm.

I looked up at him, desperate. “How can you say you didn’t mean it? It is true, Raffles.”

He looked at my face and seemed to snap out of something. Emotion crept into his eyes and his features. “Of course it’s… Bunny… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you would brush it off.” His expression was so open, again, and honest, but this time it was as soothing as it was painful. I drifted closer to him. “There,” he said, leaning towards me as though to draw me in, although we did not touch. “Please try to believe that I did not mean what I said. It was neither of our faults that I was hurt. I said it was yours because I was uncomfortable, and it was a wrong I should have righted as soon as I was calm enough to see that you were not responsible.”

I think I was too amazed to weep. I reached out and touched his face, disbelieving. Raffles would never… My hands rested on his sides.

“I had no idea your situation was the result of my words,” he told me. “Will you try to understand that it was never your fault, and that I have done you quite a wrong over the course of this past week?”

I pressed my forehead against his and closed my eyes. I spoke with great effort. “I don’t think you can understand how much this means to me.”

“I can try,” he said. It was a whisper. He tilted his head a bit to fit better against my face and nuzzled forward gently. It was strange and impossibly welcome. I put my arms all the way around him and shifted as close as I could get.

“Tell me how your arm is healing,” I prompted quietly. “I don’t wish to neglect your injury.”

“It has been healing well enough. I change the bandages myself when they need changing… Did I ever thank you for your actions to assist me?”

I swallowed to get rid of the lump in my throat. 

“Thank you for helping me.”

“There is something you should know,” I said with something of a sigh, resting my head on his shoulder and closing my eyes. “I don’t really expect you to take it poorly, but that is only because I am very happy and very tired.”

“What is it, Bunny?” His right hand found its way into my hair.

“You are very important to me. I am not sure of how much you are already aware, but my regard for you is of a different sort than that which might be expected. In fact, Raffles, I love you in the usual sense of the word.” I wanted to look up at him as I said this, but my face was tucked into his neck, and it was incredibly reassuring. I was too exhausted to be romantic about the matter.

I bit my lip at the silence that followed my words.

“Raffles?”

“Hm?”

“What do you think of it?” 

He pressed his lips to my cheek. “A confession adequately put.” His hand in my hair shifted a little when he felt me move as though I might pull away. “No, Bunny. Adequately put and, I hope, adequately reciprocated,” he finished. “Although I suppose you must decide that for yourself.”

I nodded a little. I reached up and took his hand from my hair, lacing his fingers with mine for a source of some stability.

“You’ve no idea how much I wanted to take you into my arms last night,” he mumbled. “I was unsure if it would be welcome.”

I nodded a little in simple agreement.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked me.

“Yes… Raffles?”

“Yes?”

“This isn’t something… temporary, is it? You’ll still be willing to be this close to me tomorrow, won’t you?”

He laughed. “And for quite a long while after that, I should hope,” he answered.

“Ah.” There was a lump in my throat again. “I think perhaps you had better kiss me before I start crying rather than after.”

“Whenever you like.”

I was, at this point, quite overwhelmed, so I put my arms around his neck and sobbed for several minutes. His hand got to my hair again, which contributed significantly to calming me. Eventually, I sat up straight and leaned back to get a look at him. He smiled slightly—I’m not sure he realized he was doing it.

“Thank you for letting me do that,” I told him.

He kissed my cheek again. “You deserved the opportunity,” he answered with a shrug. “Anything I can do to make up for putting you through what you’ve been through.” 

I nodded. “I’m feeling better. Do you want to have tea or anything?” I saw him consider for several moments. Then he shook his head. “Alright. I think, then, that I’d like to kiss you.” 

“Is the door locked?”

“Just a moment.” I rose and secured it. He smiled approvingly as I returned and sat next to him. I smiled a little. “I’m sorry in advance for any lack of skill I might demonstrate,” I said. 

“Quite alright,” he answered. “I know I’ve got a fair bit more experience in these manners than you do, anyway.”

I nodded. “Let me start?”

“Sure.”

I smiled.

He tipped his face towards me and I met his lips with mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3 is so goddamn long how did this happen (ﾉʘヮʘ)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ✧


	4. Chapter 4

I had kissed before, of course, but I had never kissed Raffles or anyone like him. I quickly decided that I had better pay as close attention to it as I possibly could. He had gotten an arm around me in short order and I was pressed against his chest. I could feel him breathing, there and against my cheek. Was his breath—could it possibly be unsteady? I clung to him.

His kisses were a little overwhelming to me, at first. Not physically, it was quite on the chaste side, but after all the varied emotions of the past week, having him there in my arms, and practically in my lap, and _kissing_ me, because he was going to let me love him and he was going to reciprocate… That was most intense.

He would draw back and break the kiss periodically, every few seconds at first, but letting more time go by with each kiss. He seemed to be easing me into it. I was both grateful and endeared. He gradually shifted me, by virtue of the pressure of his torso and a hand on my lower back, until, rather than being at a relatively equal height, I was leaning against the back of the sofa and arched a little, holding onto him for support. I suspect he preferred it this way due more to ego and aestheticism than to his romantic inclinations, but as I did not really mind it, and the arm he had around me was strong and reassuring, I was quite content to let us remain that way. After some time his mouth was open—we moved together in ways I am not certain my words can do justice. I eventually nudged him away. “Enough for now,” I sighed, unable to keep from gazing at him in a manner which, I am sure from his smirk, he found overly sentimental. “Shall I make us tea?”

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” he mumbled. I had sat up, and he was nuzzling into the space below my ear. I gently took his arm from around me and stood. Unable to resist the inclination, I stooped a little and pressed my lips to his forehead. He smirked a little as I made my exit. 

I returned with crumpets as well as tea, and I admit that it was pure joy to me how close we sat as we toasted them. Once we had eaten them and it was merely a matter of drinking our tea, I moved to the corner of the sofa with my back to the armrest and pulled him nearer, picking my legs up and draping them over him. “I should have made you wear a sling,” I said, taking his hurt arm and propping it on my raised and bent knees. He laughed. 

“You had best make sure you heal quickly,” I retaliated. “The sooner both your arms are well, the sooner they can both go firmly around me, where they belong.”

He gave me a look.

I’m afraid I hardly noticed the taste of my tea because I was so distracted by his profile… In my defense, I was helplessly in love with the fellow, and had, on occasion, spent whole hours watching him. Once we had set down our cups, he put his good arm around my shoulders.

I nudged his cheek with my forehead. “Raffles?”

“Yes, Bunny?”

“Could we go to my room? I do not mean to suggest that we do anything other than what we are presently doing, but it might be much nicer to do it under a warm blanket while lying in a comfortable bed.”

He nodded and I got up. He did as well, and muttered in my ear, “When I am better I intend to carry you there. None of this walking rot for us, my rabbit.” I laughed because I knew he meant it, and I had my fingers loosely wrapped around his wrist as I took him to my room.

We left our shoes near the door (I locked it) and I stood by the bed and fussed with the covers. I had not recently been in any state to make it, so it was rather disarrayed. I straightened it out a little before I drew the covers back and gestured for Raffles to come over.

“I’m sorry it’s so narrow,” I said as I edged in beside him. He shrugged and, as he was lying on his right side, put his injured left arm over me gingerly. I pressed up as close as possible and started running my fingers carefully through those curls of his.

“Darling,” I heard him whisper, and then, as though hoping to drown it out, he quickly pressed his lips to mine and held them there for several seconds, quite still.

When he drew back, he pressed his forehead into my shoulder. I rubbed his back gently for a while, but I was eventually drawn back to his hair, the touch of which reminded me a bit of coarsely woven silk, soft but not smooth. I kissed his cheek over and again, and this seemed to relax him. His cheek was soft as well, but it was smooth, although over time I would find it growing less so as the events to which he was subjected took their inevitable toll—I digress… It felt warm and safe to be there with him. I could listen to him breathe. I think I dozed off, for I lost concentration for a while and lost track of the passage of time, then found myself quite warm and sleepy when I regained it. He was giving me a very peculiar look, fond and relatively soft. 

“Raffles, what time is it?”

He reached between us and pulled out his watch. “It’s half past four,” he said. “Would you like to go out for dinner tonight? Or—I mean, are you quite up for it, given your recent condition.”

“I should ask the same of you…!” I laughed when he pushed his forehead against me in response—it reminded me of cats. “I think,” I told him after a pause, running my fingers through his hair again, “That I am _definitely_ quite up for it.” 

“Good,” he said. “I must get changed, will you meet me at—no, come with me. You can bring your clothes and change there. You can bathe there too, if you want.”

I nodded. “Must we leave quite yet?”

He smiled at me. “No,” he said. “I fact, I do not think we should.”

I put my arms around his neck carefully. His cheek rested against my forehead. For perhaps twenty minutes, I was the world’s happiest individual.

He nudged me gently after that time had elapsed. “Let’s go now,” he said into my ear. I sat up and stretched. After a few moments of lying still and watching me, he rose as well. He took me by the shoulder and spent several moments smoothing down my hair—it was a gesture of practicality, not affection, for he went on to do the same to himself. It struck me properly, at that moment, that I would never be able to let on about this relationship to anyone, and that in the future I might just as easily be imprisoned for sodomy as for burglary. I took comfort in the fact that I was, at least, no stranger to crime at this point. He turned and gave me a strange, wry smile. I think he saw through my eyes and read my very thoughts, or, at any rate, thought it best to break into my mental process with his own. I smirked weakly.

“Come,” he said, stooping to pick his shoes from the floor. I put on my own and fetched the clothes I would wear to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was totally going to be longer but I had to stop because Schubert interrupted my thought process.


End file.
